Behind The Curtains
by Mina Lisly
Summary: Clary is a famous singer named Kat-China. Jace is her manager, ten years older than. He's the one who found her in a Parisian karaoke. This is how their story grows. From both Jace and Clary's point of view. AH. AU. OOC. (Completely, OOC, read the AN)
1. Prologue

**So, before going further, know that this story is completely out of characters. Clary looks nothing like Clary, and their characters are really different. This story is something that I came up with a long time ago, when I was in high school. And I'd actually like to know what you think about it.**

**This story will be thirteen chapters, plus the prologue and the epilogue. It will have two sides at each chapter, one from Clary, the other from Jace. So it will be twenty-eight updates in all. **

**The rating will not change, I never felt like writing lemons for this story, and I will not change it. But it is still interesting, so go ahead and read it. Please? Pretty please, tell me what you think.**

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When I heard that Kat-China was leaving the world of show-business, I took my courage in hands, and I went to see her one last time in Evanton. It's extremely cold here, but we're in the middle of January, so it's only to be expected. Snow is falling flake by flake, but there is no wind to break the monotony of their unending fall. Her house almost seems mystic with the white coat of snow laying on it and the halo of light that toped it.

When Kat-China sold her Parisian apartment, I was literally shocked. She had inherited the flat from her grandfather, and, for her, it was more than a legacy, it was her home. This was the place that helped her survive as an artist, but also as a person. She loved the place. She loved it for it witnessed her tears and laughters, her hopes and blues. Moreover, she deeply loved Paris and the warmth of human contacts. Even though she paradoxically loved the peacefulness of cold and quiet.

I used to come to her Scottish house countless times, with and without her, and still, as I am standing in front of her door, I am surprised once again by the height and the isolation of the house. She never really liked it, always saying that it was 'Too big. [...] Too spacious. [...] I lost myself in it, _again_. [...]'

I smile as the memories came back to me, and I ring, waiting anxiously for her to answer. After a few moments of expectation, she opens the door, still as beautiful and enchanting as ever. Her eyes trail on me, noticing my cap covered with snow as I stand on her doorstep, and then she kindly smiles to me, whispering with her bewitching voice:

"If this isn't irony to meet again in Scotland. You saw me rise, so I guess that now, you want to see me fall."

Then she invites me in, all the while chuckling at her own words, and I immediately recognise the smell of raspberry mixed with violet, the smell that was the very definition of her. Her house is exactly like I left it, except that the number of awards has considerably increased. As I look at them, I wonder if there is any area in showbiz that she did not master. She is barely twenty, and still, she earned more awards than others in the business longer than she had been.

She offers me a coffee that I gladly accepted before biting my tongue of regret: her coffee had always been so bitter that it could wake the dead. As I let my eyes wander on her living-room, I spot an empty space that wasn't there the last time: the table was missing. Along with the chairs that are supposed to circle it. I was trying to figure out what she could have done with them when I see a picture on the wall that catch my attention.

It's only two people: a man holding a woman in his arms, bridal style. As I walk closer to the picture, I recognise her thanks to her ebony hair so long that they would make Rapunzel jealous. Still, despite the fact that it's obvious that she is kissing the man holding her, I can't see either of their faces. For all I can say, the picture had been taken in this very house.

The picture is odd and strange because it doesn't belong to this wall, but also because it looks without any doubt like a wedding picture. All I can see of the man was that he is wearing a tuxedo, which no one does on a regular basis. Kat-China, on her part, is wearing a wedding dress, it's more than obvious. It's the dress in which every girl wish to get married. A real dress coming out from a fairy tale and that would make Donkey-Skin green of jealousy.

But the disturbing thing is that -despite the fact that I know all her life in the smallest details- I need knew her any husband.

Kat-China comes back with a tray on which she put coffee, sugar and milk. I smile at her thoughtfulness and I sit on one of the fleeced rocking chair. She carefully looks at me before seating just in front of me and then she stares at the dancing flames in the hearth of the chimney all the while curling up in her chair. I closely observe her for a few moments before deciding to break the silence:

"So? You're leaving the showbiz?"

She glances at me as if, for a moment, she had forgotten about me. Then she thinks for a few seconds prior giving me a small guilty smile and she bitterly answers me:

"Only fools don't change their minds." She hesitates a few seconds before shaking her head a little. "You're really different from others, you know. It's like me being mean to you doesn't affect you: the more I hurt you, the more you admire me … Are you a masochist or something? Because I did you some nasty stuffs!"

I don't reply anything to that. The relationship we had was too complicated for us to go back on it. We share a deep look before she sweetly smiles to me, leaning in as if she wants to tell me a secret:

"What do you say that, as a friendly gesture, I tell you all about my life? My _real_ life, not the one peddled by the press."

Unable to articulate a single word, I frenetically and nervously nod and she keeps on talking, breathing in deeply:

"Of course, I am sure that, as soon that I'd finish, you'll run and see him … And you'll probably write a nice novel on your favourite and adored idol. To tell you the truth, now I _really_ don't care."

This time, I stay motionless, only staring at her as I wait for her to go on on herself. She longly looks at me and then, after glancing desperately at the door, she gets up and leaves in one of the neighbouring room.

I think that she changed since the last time that we really saw each other. Sure she's still the same: out of a fairy tale. Her eyes are still as weird as when we met and her looks still make me think of a lost princess. Still, she lost weight and now her hair is so long that it touches the floor. But what's more striking is that it seems that something is dead within her. As if she lost her reason to live.

When she comes back, Kat-China is holding a small white casket on which is carved a reseda flower. She gives it to me saying: "The originals." I take the box, thinking that it's filled with the originals of her lyrics.

I watch her sit down, and as she rolls herself in her plaid, I wonder how she knew that I would go see him. Suddenly, she clears her voice and tells me:

"You know, for a long time, I was mad at him. But, it hurt me more than him. And 'past is past. Past is gone and I don't want to be its prisoner.' ... Except that I've always been obsessed by time. It was probably premonitory..."

Her purple and golden eyes who were so far empty and veiled by an invisible veil of sadness, bore into mines, sparkling all of the sudden. She playfully smiles and says: "Of course, you have no idea of what I'm saying. So, what do they say already? Oh yeah ...

.

**~.o.O.o.~**

**.**

**So, what do you think of it? I don't know, I kind of like this story. Tell me your lovely thoughts in a lovely review, and that would make my day. ^^**

**Anyways, Cassandra Clare owns the Mortal Instruments franchise, everything else is mine.**

**Kiss㈍9 Kiss㈍9 Bang㈝9 Bang㈝9.**


	2. Chapter 1 Parturiante, 1

It all started on November, Saturday the 29th, 2003. I was 16, but people always thought that I was older. I never considered myself as a beauty queen, but I knew that I wasn't a duck either. I was just average, a miss everyone. Sure, there was this little peculiarity that made me famous, among other things. But that was a family thing, and so, for me, it was something completely normal. A few more kilos wouldn't have hurt, but I wasn't anorexic either.

If people looked back on me in the streets, it was because of the strange things that are my eyes. I always considered them as an anomaly, and I was even convinced that my parents conceived me in a nuclear central. That was one of the things that I loved when I became famous, having to wear shades all the time.

Anyway, that Saturday night, I was out with my friends in a karaoke in Paris. If there is anything that I've always been proud of, it's my voice. Already back then I knew that my voice was magnificent. You know very well that I never liked false modesty and even less bragging people, but when you have something so beautiful and so wonderful hidden within you, you have to claim it and ... assume it.

When I walked on the stage, I was completely lucid. What I mean by that is that I hain't drink or smoke anything. The song that I was supposed to sing had been chosen by the public, well I mean the people in the karaoke. It was a very famous song from December 2002, and it was a song that had always touched me very deeply. And still, this night I felt more imprinted by it than ever. It was as if the song had been written for me, or rather _by_ me. It was far from being my first karaoke, but it was my last.

This night, I sang with more passion than usual. I barely glanced at the screen scrolling the lyrics, barely acknowledged the fifty people staring at me. I was elsewhere. I let the song consume me through its lyrics and through the meaning I gave them. I remember that at the end of the song, I was crying, even though I was neither drunk or stoned. I was just _the song_. When I went up the stage, I thought that it would be just like any other time …

Once the song was over, I came back to reality thanks to the dumbfounding applause. It was the first time people stood up for me. Everyone was up. Everyone was clapping. Everyone had been enchanted. And I was more than happy, I was ecstatic.

As I walked back to my table and my friends, I wiped away the last tears rolling down my face, goofily smiling. A few people were still looking at me, but I didn't mind, I only felt flattered by their stares.

Jamie smirked as I sat on my chair and said with wonder:

"Clary, you were _amazing_! As usual. But this time ... I don't know, you had such a presence! There was something more. It's like _you_ were the one who wrote the song."

I looked at Jamie who was still staring at me with admiration, and I playfully replied: "Who knows?"

"Well, you sang it with so much emotion that even _I_ was about to cry. No, seriously, do you realise that …"

I stopped paying attention to Jamie's rambling as another person walked up the stage and timidly sang with a monotone voice a song from Mylène Farmer, but I can't remember which one it was. I was lost in my thoughts when Jamie's voice startled me:

"Clary! Youhou! Are you listening to me?"

"Of course I am. And of course we will sing together. Isn't it what we always do?" I say, rolling my eyes as I reassured Jamie.

Jamie was like that, always in need to make sure that everything would go according to plan. I always thought it was rather weird. Like this need to _always_ talk. About everything and nothing. But still, Jamie was someone nice to hang around with, even though I wouldn't have mind a little quietness from time to time. In a way, Jamie was the exact opposite of Jon, who was someone calm and really composed.

Jon came to my rescue with a small smile and joined the conversation. Well, he mostly nodded to Jamie's monologue, and I -for once- was not listening to it. I could feel someone still intensely staring at me, which was weird since I had finished singing two songs ago. And, as I was scanning the karaoke, looking for the person staring at me, I saw it. This look full of ambition, hope and … desire.

When the man to whom belonged this gaze caught me staring, he smiled and waved to me. I quickly responded by a polite and curt smile before I swiftly looked away, returning to my friends 'conversation'. I was really troubled because I could swear that I knew him, or that I've already seen him somewhere. He had golden eyes and a golden skin. His hair was also golden, rather long and curly. And his thin stubble allowed me to distinguish his thin lips.

"Jonathan?" Jamie said with a very annoyed voice.

"Yes?"

"You're not listening either!" Jamie accused, making me roll my eyes at this obsessive need Jamie had to always have an audience.

Jon smirked, his brown eyes lost into space as he explained: "I know, but that's because Clary has an … admirer rather … _interesting_."

"Who? Where?" Jamie and I asked in a same voice. But before Jon could fill us in with the information we needed, a foreign voice echoed behind me:

"Pardon me, miss?"

I turned and got paralysed as I recognised the new comer, it was the familiar stranger. I swallowed hardly as I said in a squeaky voice: "Yes?"

"Would you grant me the next song?"

I remember laughing so hard at this request. It was so strange, as if we were still in the 20's and that he was a gentleman asking for a dance. But he didn't really seem to care about my laughter, and only politely smiled. I liked his voice. It was deep, intense and … particularly sensual, with that hint of English accent that made it even more luxurious.

"Well, … I don't see any inconvenient, … but … the songs are chosen by the public, and so are the duets." I awkwardly stuttered.

It took him a certain time to understand what I just rambled, and then he acquiesced before walking back to his table. I kept my eyes on him, wondering where I had seen him before. But once again, I was startled out of my thoughts by Jamie:

"What's happening to you, Clary? Since when do you let strangers talk to you? Sure, he's super hot, but still. That doesn't look like you. At all!"

I looked at Jamie, ready to retort with one of those witty comment that I always came up with, but Jon intervened:

"Yes. But that wasn't a stranger like any other …"

"What do you mean? Do you know him?" Jamie and I asked again together. But once again, we were interrupted by someone else:

"And the next song is: '_Manhattan-Kabul_' by Renaud and Axelle Red."

I tried to use the few spare seconds I had to steal the information I wanted from Jon, but the stranger arrived and told me that our turn was up. His voice made me jump a little, but as soon as I was back from my little fright, I followed him to the stage.

'_Manhattan-Kabul_' is a song that I always liked, even today. But it was only when 'my stranger' started singing that I finally recognised him. Still, I didn't let it disarm me and I decided to play stupid until the end. After all, maybe he wanted to sing like that, like the rest of us. Just for the fun if it, and not as a bread-maker. Maybe he wanted to be a nobody in this karaoke. I couldn't have been more wrong …

When the song was over, he shook my hand and hastily left the karaoke. I walked back to my table under a few timid claps. This time, everyone was looking at the door where he just left, which wasn't surprising. Once I was sitting, I looked down at my hand. He had given me a card in which I could read:

**Jace Wayland**

**Singer-author-composer**

**561 madison avenue**

**Tucson ARIZONA 85721**

**USA**

**702-427-xxxx**

I turned the card, not really knowing why I did that, and I saw that he wrote on the back: _'Call me_'. The writing was untidy and the message had been written hastily. As I blankly looked at the card, I realised that I had been right about the identity of my stranger, but I completely misread his intentions. I was completely wrong.

I was literally paralysed. I must admit that I didn't think really cleverly and that I dumbly asked myself what he wanted to do with me. And after a few seconds of thinking, the answer clearly appeared to me. '_He just wants to have some good time_.' I know that I was being vain thinking that. There was no chance for me to level up with the models and celebrities he'd already been with.

To be honest, it was just a cliché coming to my mind. A celebrity who wanted to cut himself from the world of showbiz while using the perks of his notoriety. But I quickly shook off this preposterous idea from my mind, before looking back at the card. Then I checked the time and saw that it was only 9:34pm. I got up and and walked to the bar, my mind completely clear, even though I had problems digesting this new event.

"Clary? Where are you going?" Jon said, but his voice seemed so far away.

"I just want a TGV." (**AN. It's a cocktail, Tequila, Gin, Vodka)** I replied. I didn't really want it, but a small voice within me was telling me that it would make everything clearer.

I sat on one of the bar's strollers, my eyes lost into space as I was trying to understand something of what was happening to me.

"You shouldn't do that, you know?" Jon said with a very patronising voice. He was standing right behind me, and I knew that he was right. But my little voice of reason was getting less and less audible. I just wanted to follow my instinct, and my instinct was telling me to just let go and stop thinking. The fact that Jon was telling me to go against it was making me seethe with anger. But I still tried to contain myself.

"And why shouldn't I?" I curtly asked. Jon stared at me with shock, surprised by my tone, but then he took me in his comforting arms. He hesitated a little -as if he was choosing his words extra carefully- and then he told me:

"Because this won't make you think clear, like you think it will. On the contrary."

I heaved and got up, one of my hand on the bar as Jon was stepping back a little. Then I walked back to our table and I took back my stuffs under Jamie's quizzical gaze. I was heading toward the exit when Jon intercepted me and opened the door for me. Once we were outside, he asked me:

"And where are you going now?"

"Home."

"Good. You want me to walk you there?"

"Nope. I'm okay, don't worry. Take care of Jamie." I said with a small smile. I was already starting to walk away when a question came to my mind. I already knew the answer, but I had to ask Jon.

"Jon?"

"Yes?"

"Er … did you know?"

Jon longly looked at me, obviously holding his thoughts and carefully choosing the words he would use. And then, after interminable seconds, he articulated, insisting on each of his words:

"I don't know what you're talking about, Clary."

And on those words, I understood that the conversation was over, and so I left.

It was extremely cold outside. I've never been one to be sensitive to the cold, and yet, this night seemed polar to me. I was wearing a small folded skirt, and the cold and dry wind was blowing on me, intruding in every part of my being. And still, despite this freezing cold, I was irradiating.

It was 10:17pm when I got home, and as soon as I closed the door, I undressed and poured myself a glass of alcohol. And then another, and another again until the bottle was empty. Little by little, I started thinking that I dreamt the whole thing and that nothing ever happened. Reality started to blur, just like the corners of my apartment.

I was living in my own since my 'ever-loving parents' threw me out on my sixteenth birthday, under the cherish word of '_emancipation_'. My grandfather had legated me his apartment just before he died. And even if his death deeply touched me, I was still grateful to him for this last gesture he had toward me.

My memories about what happened this night are still today completely blurred. I vaguely remember that the lights were out, I think I switched on my computer at some point, and that I went to my bathroom, and beside that, it's a total blur.

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**~.o.O.o.~**

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The next morning, I woke up as fresh as ever -I've been hangover of my life- but I had no recollection of what happened the night before. So I did my little Sunday routine, cleaning my apartment by dusting and moping everywhere. I put in the trash-bin a bottle of liquor as well as two join butts, but it was only when I checked my pockets to do my laundry that I found the card. And that's when everything came back to me. The karaoke, Jace Wayland, the card, Jon's attitude and his advise that I clearly didn't follow. _Everything_. Everything until the black hole.

I rushed to my computer and, as it was off, I switched it on and nervously tapped the desk. My eyes were glued in the screen as the computer was lazily coming to life, and my mind was racing with a zillion questions. What did he really what with me? Why didn't he ask a private conversation back at the karaoke to directly talking to me? Why didn't I already called him? What did I really want?

The computer was infuriating me for it was so long. Was it even normal? And finally the window page appeared in the screen and told me that it was 9:31am. I launched an Internet page, even though I didn't know what I was going to do, or what I wanted to do.

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**~.o.O.o.~**

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"Well, being a celeb is rather sad, after all. They have no freaking private life!" I thoughT as I was standing in front of the hotel where Jace Wayland was supposed to stay. I found every bit of informations about his life on the Internet. From his last album to the day he lost his first tooth.

And this was how I knew that he was in holidays in Paris (city where his late mother was from), and that he was staying in this particular hotel. It was a hotel rather common. What I mean by that it that it wasn't a Hilton. But, from what I read on the Internet, Jace Wayland was someone modest, mousy and who didn't like to show off his wealth.

The bell tower tore me out of my thoughts, indicating me that it was eleven in the morning. I looked once again at the building before I deeply breathed in, like in the movies, and I walked in.

"Welcome, miss, to the hotel E***. What can I do for you?" The hall porter asked with a commercial smile and I walked to his counter, feeling completely uneasy about this whole situation.

"Well, er… Hello. I'd like to rent a room, please." I said, not wanting to pose as a groupie by asking after Jace Wayland.

"Of course. That's what we're here for. How long are you planning on staying?" He asked with his too polite voice, and I thought about it for a second before I replied:

"Mmm … I don't know, let's just say that I'll be gone before nightfall."

The hall porter longly stared at me before he looked at his book and said: "This still counts as one night. I think that room … 112 will be _perfect_ for you. It's on the first floor. Please, sign the register."

He looked highly suspicious of me. I think he knew why I was really there, well, at least who I wanted to see. But still, I didn't really care. I knew that I wasn't a groupie, and even less a groupie of Jace Wayland.

I looked at the register and I took all my time to sign in (under a fake name) for I was looking for his name, or at least a handwriting similar to the one on the card, but I didn't find anything. I was disappointed and ready to drop this whole mission, feeling that I made a big deal out of nothing, but I still took the room key and went upstairs. As I was in the first step of the staircase, a special messenger walked to the desk and said: "Special delivery for Jace W. Room 309."

I inwardly smiled and finished my ascension of the stairs, thinking that fate was with me, this time. Then I put my bag down and I sat on the bed to read a play that I have read at least a thousand times before. I had decided to wait until midday before knocking at the door of room 309, and so I tried to lose myself in _Lorenzaccio_. It was one of my favourite play. I loved everything about it. The plot, the political implication, the love story, the author. To tell you the truth, I've never been a library rat, but that was long forgotten when it came to plays, or movie scripts.

I started to read, or at least, I pretended to. All my thoughts were focused on something else. Even though I knew everything there was to know about Jace Wayland, down to his hotel room number, I still didn't know what he wanted with me. No matter how hard I was thinking about it, I didn't know. And now that I think back about it, I feel so stupid. It's not that it was obvious, it was just logical. I should have thought about it, I should have …

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**~.o.O.o.~ For the sake of the story, there is some French/English. But don't worry, I put the translation, and the 'bad' French is here on purpose.**

.

"Who is this?" He asked behind his closed door, and I literally froze. I never expected this. Wether it was him not opening the door, or him talking in English, I didn't expect this. Yet, it was only logical. I gathered my courage and stuttered:

"Er… I'm… er… somebody who cannot… call you." Was it even English? Back then, the only correct English I could produce was on the paper, behind the safety of a school test. I never had to speak with a real English speaker before. I thought that Shakespeare was probably rolling in his tomb for I just abraded his language with my very French accent.

The door flew open, revealing to me a topless Jace Wayland. He stared down at me for a second before smiling and inviting me in.

"So how are you?" He asked, and I inwardly cursed. Again with the English! Didn't he talk to me in French in the karaoke?

"Er … fine."

He sat on the bed and indicated me to do the same, so I sat on the edge of the bed, never looking away from him. I wasn't really at ease. I was talking to a stranger (celebrity, but stranger nonetheless) in his hotel room, but in addition to that, there was now the barrier of the language. I was looking for a way to start a conversation, but I came out blank, and this silence between us was starting to oppress me. I was starting to think that I should have thrown away that damn card and forget everything behind it. Maybe that's what I should have done…

"Peut-être que toi préfères que je parle français?" (_Maybe that you like better that I speak French?_) He asked, and I smiled at that.

"Oui, j'aimerais mieux." (_Yes, I'd like that._)

The tension in the room disappeared all of the sudden. I don't know how I could explain it. It was as if … as if I was now with a childhood friend.

"Quel est ton nom ?" (_What is your name?_) He asked, and I immediately responded:

"Simone Dournon."

I was prepared for this question, and this was the name I signed in with at the desk, downstairs. I chose Simone because it was the first name of two women I was admiring a lot. As for Dournon, it was the name of a French dictionary and I highly doubted that he knew its existence.

"… Pourquoi tu n'as pas appelé moi ?" (_Why you didn't call me?_) He asked again, and I felt a pang of compassion for him due to the efforts he was making to talk in French. But it didn't last for long. He was the ONe who wanted to see me (well, talk to me), and so he would be the one who would have to make the efforts. Still, I decided that I wouldn't use words too complicated to make it easy for him.

"Parce que je n'aime pas parler au téléphone. Si je dois en finir avec une situation qui inclus d'autres personnes, je résous cette situation avec ces personnes en face de moi. Did you understand?" (_Because I don't like talking on the phone. When I have to settle a situation that includes other people, I do it with those said people in front of me. Did you understand?_) I explained, and that made him smirk as he retorted:

"I do. But if you'd call, we'd still be able to see each other."

I cursed again as he was talking once again in English. But instead of getting angry, I took it as a life lesson, and thought that it would be a good practice for my clumsy English. It wasn't like I didn't need it, after all.

"Yes, but I was not very sure that I wanted to talk with you." I truthfully said, and he chuckled as he replied:

"I won't eat you."

'_We never know_'. I remember thinking those words so vividly that they must have shown through my face. But before I could even think of anything witty I could reply, he went on about my aptitude in English. According to him, my English was 'quite good'… I stared at him, expecting to see mockery of annoyance on his face. But I only saw nothing like that, only emotions that were … completely out of place. The same ones that I thought I saw at the karaoke.

"I do not agree with you." I coyly uttered, looking down at my hands. I don't know why I kept talking English when it was obviously making me uncomfortable. I had the impression that I was in high school and that I had to answer to a particularly sadistic professor. It was awful, and I was only wishing for one thing: the end of it.

"Really? Well, je peux parler français encore, si tu préfères." (_Really? Well, I can talk in English again, if you like better_.) He said with a glimpse of amusement illuminating his golden eyes, and this alone set my nerves on fire. He was making fun of me on purpose!

"The problem is not to know if we talk English or French, but to know why I am here." I coldly replied, and that made him smirk.

"Oh, so I can speak English?" He asked, and I had to mentally injure myself to not leave his room in a very theatrical and dramatic way. Maybe that's what I should have done… Maybe if I had left at this moment, I wouldn't have to many remorses today. Remorses that even Grim the Reaper cannot erase.

"Okay. Je stoppe de rigoler sinon, tu vas manger moi." He said with a light chuckle before he straightened up and added: "En fait, si je voulais te parler, c'est parce que je veux devenir agent." (_Okay, I stop teasing, or you eat me. Actually, if I wanted to talk to you, it's because I want to become a manager_.)

"Et ? Je n'ai pas de décision à prendre à votre place. (_So? I'm not here to take any decision for you_.)

"Non, excuses-moi je me suis mal exprimé. Ce que je voulais dire c'est que je souhaite devenir _ton_ agent." (_No, excuse me. I didn't express myself properly. What I wanted to say is that I'd like to become _your_ manager._) He clarified.

I was so shocked by those words that I didn't even realised that he talked in a correct French. I must have staid a good long minute stupidly and blankly looking at him before I regained composure of myself. That's when I brusquely stood up and walked to the exit, but before opening the door, I span on myself and I bore my eyes into his golden eyes.

"You know, it is not because you are a celebrity, or because you are rich, that you can have fun to someone else's expense. I will not try to give you a long and passionate speech that would make feel shame toward your actions, because I know you will not listen to me, and that you will not change your ways to be." I said with anger before I theatrically added: "So, goodbye sir!"

I opened the door, but just as I was about to leave this room and all the nonsense in it, I heard him say in my back, in a very low murmur: "I'm not making fun of you, Clarissa Morgenstern."

I froze for a second, shocked by the fact that he knew my name, but also by his tone. I turned my head a little to briefly look at him, and I saw that he wasn't smirking as I was expecting him to. On the contrary, he was looking at me with anxiety and despair.

I hesitated a moment before turning my back to him and walking back to my room. Once there, I angrily put back in my bag my book and umbrella, and then I put my hoodie on before going downstairs and paying for my room under the caretaker very suspicious eyes. When I walked out of the hotel, the bell tower was ringing its thirteenth dong.

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**~.o.O.o.~**

.

When I walked in my apartment, I was seething with anger, which led me in doing something I hadn't done in 37 days, I called my parents. I didn't call them to talk to them about what just happened to me, but I just wanted to … hear their voice. My parents and I always had been in conflict about everything and nothing, which means that I learned to turn their voices into someting soothing and appeasing. Even though when I was calling them, it was mostly to have news of my little brother. Because my lifestyle was so different from my parents', I didn't have a real relationship with Max, anymore.

I hung up the phone at 2:47pm, and I directly attacked my homework since I had done all my cleaning in the morning. But even though I was thoroughly reading about the actuators of the Cold War, my mind kept wandering on my conversation with Jace Wayland.

Now that I was thinking about it, I was more startled than angry. His proposition wasn't that impossible after all. I knew how to sing, didn't I? He probably got my name from the manager of the karaoke who knew him like the back of his hand. Well, at least my voice since I spent almost all my weekends there.

But what was most intriguing me, more than the sentence itself, what was most intriguing me was the tone he used. And everything in itself was really confusing me. I was starting to think that I should have asked Jon to come along with me, so he would be able to help in the decision I should make. But on the other hand, I knew that I had a bad tendency on leaning too often on Jon's shoulder ever since my parents threw me out, and I didn't want to keep abusing of his kindness.

Suddenly, the buzz of my phone startled me out of my thoughts, but I didn't even try to answer it. I didn't want to entertain a conversation with whomever it was, and so -even though it was only 4:39pm- I went to bed.

But this night, I didn't sleep very well, and so I was up before my alarm even rang at 6:15am. I was completely sore, and I was feeling like I've just gone to bed. I got ready on automatic mode, and when I left my apartment, I knew what I would do about Jace Wayland and his wild imaginings.

It was December the first, 2003. On a Monday. In the middle of Paris. It was 6:47. And I was running under the thin rain to catch up my bus when I saw something that made me stop dead in my tracks.

Jace Wayland was leaning against a black C3 with black windows. We looked at one another before I walked round the car, avoiding the best I could the paddles in the floor, and then I sat in the car while he did the same.

My decision was made. It had been since the beginning, and that's why I didn't need Jon's presence beside me. It was because my decision was made.

.

**~.o.O.o.~**

**.**

**So, what do you think of it? I don't know, I kind of like this story. Tell me your lovely thoughts in a lovely review, and that would make my day. ^^**

**Next chapter will be Jace's point of view. Well, hope you liked it.**

**Anyways, Cassandra Clare owns the Mortal Instruments franchise, everything else is mine.**

**Kiss㈍9 Kiss㈍9 Bang㈝9 Bang㈝9.**


	3. Chapter 1 Parturiante, 2

_When Jace Wayland opens the front-door of his house, he doesn't seem surprised by my presence. On the contrary, he even confesses to me that he was expecting me, before he adds: "But still, for a second, I was hoping that it would be her. Just for a second …"_

_Unlike Kat-China, Jace doesn't talk to me about our common past. He doesn't ask me anything about the nature of my visit, either. He just sits us in his backyard and gives me a casket identical to the one Kat-China gave me. "The originals." He sternly says, all the while sitting next to me._

_Now that I know the significance of the flower on the casket, I am sure that it was Jace who had the idea of these common caskets that he and Kat-China share. It wasn't something she would have come up with._

_It's the first time that I am actually standing in Jace's house. I mean, I already followed Kat-China to Phoenix, but I never came to _Jace's_ house. And still, it feels like I've already been there, which is weird because his place looks nothing like Kat-China's. Jace's house is spacious, but empty. The warmth that I felt through the wood of the furnitures at Kat-China's is completely missing here. There is only the bare necessities. There's no decoration -like Kat-China's wall of weirdness- to break the monotony of the omnipresent black and white._

_Suddenly, as Jace passes a hand in his hair to clear his eyes, I understand why I have this feeling of déjà-vu at his place. There is here the same scent of raspberry mixed with violet that always surrounded Kat-China. And this immediately reminds me of what she told me a few days ago, which makes me turn to Jace and open my mouth to break him the news. But Jace cuts me off before I can say anything:_

"_Don't worry. I'll complete your story… everything could have been so simple. But I said too much, I wanted too much I asked too much. And now, like martyrs, I live with that silent and daily suffering."_

_I stare at him, wondering what could be so bad about his version of the story that it would turn him into a martyr, and Jace keeps his eyes lost into space. Ever since I walked in his house, he barely looked at me, but it doesn't surprise me. I always knew that Jace Wayland never appreciated me. There were even some times when he would look at me with hatred back then, and for a second -when he looked in my direction- I was expecting to see that hatred back._

_But instead, I see compassion, which, oddly, is more frightening to me. Jace longly heaves before he tells me: "You know, even if I wrote and composed my own music, I don't know the words or the pretty ways to make your story all nice and shit. So, I'm just gonna tell you what happened. Well, at least the way I remember it. But let's start with a pretty sentence …_

.

**~.o.O.o.~**

**.**

It's during one of my travels to Paris that my life lost its meaning. Showbiz was eating me alive a little more every day that passed by, and it was something that I could endure less and less. Don't get me wrong, I loved my job, but the disadvantages were becoming too numerous for me.

I had decided to come to Paris because it was the town that my late mother loved the most, but also because it was where she was from. Even though the plan wasn't really clear in my mind, I was planning on advertising from there that I was quitting the show-business. I knew that a few leeches had followed me, but I never really gave them the scoop of their lives, so they weren't always on my back.

I don't really remember why I wanted to go to this karaoke. Maybe it was because I couldn't stand the four salmon pinkish walls of my hotel room. Maybe it was because I wanted to be like anyone else. Or maybe it was because I wanted to see people sing. And I have to say, it was funny to watch them sing. Some were completely off key, others were hollering more than singing, others were even dancing against the rhythm. There were also the ones who were there against their will, or the ones who didn't know the lyrics of the song.

But to tell you the truth, I wasn't really listening to them. I wasn't even looking at them. I was more acting like an extra, bored out of my mind, but appreciating the fact that I was out of my hotel room. And that's when _she_ came on stage.

I never believed in love at first sight. To me, those kind of bullshit was barely acceptable in bad chick movies. _Barely_. So, when I saw her, that feeling that rose within me, I immediately compared it to desire, and nothing else. A violent and irrepressible desire, but it was still nothing else but desire. It couldn't be anything else. And especially not love. How could I feel something for someone that I didn't even know? I didn't even know her name!

And then, she started singing. And one of my songs. With so much emotions that even I, the writer of this song, was shaken by her performance. I mean, she transmitted more emotions than I ever did! And as if to prove my thoughts, the whole karaoke -including me- stood up to applause her.

And as I was standing up, acclaiming this girl who made us all quiver, I had a sort of epiphany. I couldn't let such a talent rot in the karaokes of Paris. The whole wide word needed to hear this splendid voice. And I would be the one to introduce this voice to mortal ears. Now that I think of it, I think it's weird that I felt this need to bring her into the world that I was desperate to flee.

She walked back to her friends while I was wondering how I would approach her and tell her about my plans for her, already seeing her at her apotheosis, when I felt her gaze fall on me. She slightly blushed when I looked back at her, and then she swiftly snapped her head back to her friends after she answered to my little wave with a small smile.

For a moment, I staid frozen, gaping at her back and completely destabilised by what I just saw. Her eyes _couldn't_ be normal. She must have been wearing contact lenses. They were … purple with sparks of gold every now and then. This wasn't natural, and even inexistent as far as I was concerned.

I looked once again in her direction before I decided myself on going to her to talk with her. As I walked to her table, one of her friends raised an interested eyebrow, and he murmured something to her. I never doubted the fact that he recognised me on the spot because this is the kind of guy he is. I was just behind her when she said: "_Who? Where?"_

Even when she wasn't singing, she had a magnificent voice. This thing that she has, it's really a gift from Heaven, and I remember that when I realised how blessed she was, a little part of me felt jealous of her. You see, everyone can sing, but rare are the people who can naturally sing, without any training.

Her friend with the quirking eyebrow looked at me, apparently pondering if he should make my presence known, and so I cleared my throat as I intruded in their little circle: "Pardon me, miss?"

She span in her chair to look at me, and once her eyes were on me, they widened of shock as she looked for something on my face.

"Yes?" She warily said, even though it wasn't sending off to the bushes. I was supposed to speak, but I couldn't look away from her supernatural eyes, sure now that she wasn't wearing contact lenses. I didn't know how to tell her what I was feeling about her voice and what I wanted to do with her, and so I awkwardly asked her: "Would you grant me the next song?"

She laughed, but I didn't really mind. I mean, that was one ridiculous and old fashioned way to approach her. I think I would have laughed too if I wasn't feeling so self-conscious at this right moment. She lightly and kindly told me that she didn't see any objection, but that we would have to wait for a duet to be picked up by the 'public'.

I was thrilled that she wasn't rejecting me after that awful first impression, and I stayed a little longer than needed, trying to print in my memory every detail of her small face as I took my most passive expression. But before I could memorise anything about the girl, one of her friend slightly 'coughed', looking at me with a mix of indignation and anger, and so I went back to my table with that little images I had of her.

She was actually quite average -from the little I had seen. The only thing really singular about her was her eyes. And still, though I had classified her as not worth a second look in the street, she was ten times more appealing to me than any woman that I had the opportunity to be with up until then.

I never knew why she caught my eyes like that ever since I first saw her, but she still did. Maybe it was because of her unique eyes. Maybe it was because of her small and delicate smile in the corner of her lips. Or maybe I was just drawn by her natural strength. I don't know. All I know is that I wanted her. I selfishly wanted her. And it was more than desire, it was beyond that. I wanted her in my arms, looking at me, moaning my name.

The manager of the karaoke startled me out of my thoughts as he announced in the mike that the next song was a French duet. I grimaced a little because I had stopped listening to French music with my mother's death. I walked back to the girl and we went together to the stage under the very furious eyes of her friend.

Once we were on stage, I kept on glancing at her from the corner of my eyes so I could finally look at her. I saw in her extraordinary eyes a glimpse of comprehension when I started singing, but it was quickly followed by denial, or resignation. I can't be sure. And I finally really looked at her, realising how unfair I had been to her, calling her average. I even insulted her by saying so, she was more than pretty, she was breathtaking. She wasn't my kind of girl, and yet, the idea that someone was looking at her the same way I was doing was something upsetting to me.

Ironically, she was wearing a Japanese school uniform, making me wonder what it would be like to role play with her. Her skirt was showing her thin and long legs, without being bonny. I figured that she should have been 5.25 feet. She wasn't a stick either, she had curves, and during the whole song, I was only dreaming on letting my fingers travel on them. I had kept her face for the last, and I wasn't disappointed by what I saw.

Because of the particularity of her eyes, I only watched those. But now that I was looking at her whole face, I realised what was making her truly beautiful. She was actually the exact copy of Blanche-Neige. Or at least, the description we always have of this fairy tale princess. Her hair was black as ebony, her lips were red as blood, her skin was fair as snow. I'm sure that even Blanche-Neige would be jealous of her.

Once the song was over, we saluted the crowd and I shook her hand to give her my card on which I wrote her to call me. I know, cliché much, uh? The murmur coming from the other 'singers' warned me, and I hurried myself outside. But before doing so, I cornered the manager, and asked him the most important information of this evening.

"Clarissa Morgenstern. Nice voice? What do you think of it? Nice chick, too." He told me, and I stormed out of the karaoke, rushing to my car, gritting my teeth of frustration. Apparently, everyone saw that she was anything but average, when it took me forever to realise it.

I started wandering in the streets of Paris as fear slightly grew in me: the fear that she wouldn't call me. I vouched to myself that I'd comb every single karaoke of Paris to find her back of I had to, but I wouldn't let her shove me out of her life so easily. I couldn't say why, but the idea that I could only be an anecdote that she'd tell her grandchildren was something I couldn't bear.

"Clarissa Morgenstern. That's not something that common." I mumbled to myself, pushing on the accelerator to drive back to my hotel.

Once there, I dashed to my room and switched in my laptop, hoping that French people had something that would help find her. My laptop took an indefinite time to start and so I started pacing through the room, wondering if I had done the good thing by giving her the upper hand upon our next meeting.

When Windows little song finally echoed, I directly opened an Internet page before hesitating on what I should write. I typed 'search people' in French, requesting French pages, but I didn't find anything satisfying. The second research was as fruitless, but the third try was the good one for me. '_Rechercher adresses personnes_'. It led me to a website called '_Les Pages Blanches_' where I searched for 'Clarissa Morgenstern, IDF'. In the whole region of Ile-de-France, there were only two families under the name of Morgentsern. The both lived in the eight district of Paris, but only one was referring with a Clarissa.

So I decided that if the next day she hadn't call me before midday, I would go to her place. I would stay there all day long, and all night long if needed, until she condescended talking to me. Even if it was to send me to the bushes.

.

**~.o.O.o.~**

.

I didn't sleep much this night for I was so obsessed by this call she was supposed to give me. Wasn't she supposed to have called me as soon as she had the card? Even a few minutes later? Did she actually keep the card?

As soon as the sun transpierced the hideous curtains of my room, I jumped on my feet, ready to go to the address indicated by the Pages Blanches. But I still took the time to think a little about this irrational action, and I decided to take a shower before leaving.

The shower turned into a bath, and when I was out of it, I took note that the room service passed by room, leaving me a consequent breakfast. But my stomach was too torn by anxiety to eat or drink anything. I was dressing up when I noticed a letter without any stamp posed between the Orange juice glass and the plate of eggs and bacon.

I took it, but when I saw the expediter, I disregarded it with a grimace of annoyance. It was the letter of a fan, which meant that I would have to change hotel if I wanted to avoid receiving other letters like this. I let myself fall on the bed, thinking that it had been very reckless of me to go out on such a public place.

As I was motionlessly laying in the bed, an awful doubt started snaking its way within me. Maybe she did throw the card away and looked the other way, not wanting to do anything with me. Or _worse_. Maybe the guy with the furious eyes was preventing her on seeing me. Did she confide to him? And as a matter of fact, what was he for her? A friend? A brother? A … _nothing_! They couldn't be closer because I wanted her to be mine. My thoughts started becoming less and less rational, evolving around the fantasy of a her and I, far away from the furious gaze of her friend.

.

**~.o.O.o.~**

.

I woke up because of small knocks on my door, and my first thought was that it was the hotel. '_Encore le room-service ! Can't they just leave me alone_?' I walked to the door, thinking that I'd drive to her place as soon as I'd dismiss the room service, but I still took the precaution to ask who it was. I really didn't want to open the door to a deranged groupie barging into my room. But as I heard the voice of the person behind the door, I flew it open, my heart beating faster than it should without reason.

And there she was standing, Clarissa Morgenstern, more beautiful than I remembered. I saw a little surprise gleaming in her marvellous eyes, but it was nothing compared to the surprise I was feeling. Her hair was up in a high ponytail that allowed me to see better her face. If I had to guess, I would have given her between 21 and 23 years old. Do I even have to tell you what she looked like? Her neck was long, her chin charming, her lips bloody red and plump, her nose straight, her cheekbones high. And her humongous purple eyes were looking at me with curiosity sparkling in her golden tinsel.

She seemed smaller than the night before by seven good inches and, as I was doing my best to keep a straight face, I asked her how she was doing. I made her enter, thinking that I never would have allowed myself to dream of this situation. Her and I, alone, in my hotel room, with her willing presence.

Still, I accorded to me that I'd have to change hotels because if she found me so easily, it her would do too. Just like the fangirl who sent me the letter.

We sat on the bed, my eyes still ravaging hers as I wanted to keep in my mind every detail of her for once she'd be gone. Today again, she was wearing a skirt, but it was a red skirt this time, that clashed with her black corset. I frowned as I realised that she wasn't wearing a jacket or a cardigan, but before I could linger in that detail, I realised that she seemed to be in straits. After all, I was still an English speaking stranger to her, even though I was famous.

With a small smirk on my lips, I asked her if she wanted me to talk to her in French, but making grammar mistakes on purpose as if I was still in school. Her whole face lit up at this possibility, and she agreed to that, so I kept on talking in French with that 'difficulty' of the language, asking her her name.

"Simone Dournon." She immediately told me, and I repressed a grimace as it became obvious that she wasn't trusting me. Even though she came all the way to my hotel room, she was still keeping her distances with me. I wondered why she used this particular pseudonym, and why she came to me if it was to lie to my face. I mean, at least on the phone I could have let deception take over me quicker.

"… Pourquoi tu n'as pas appelé moi ?" (_Why you didn't call me?_) I asked, having a lot of troubles to find plausible grammar mistakes, and even more troubles in orienting the 'conversation' toward a us, or at least a her with a I near by.

She deeply breathed in, and explained with her angelic voice: "Parce que je n'aime pas parler au téléphone. Si je dois en finir avec une situation qui inclus d'autres personnes, je résous cette situation avec ces personnes en face de moi. Did you understand?" (_Because I don't like talking on the phone. When I have to settle a situation that includes other people, I do it with those said people in front of me. Did you understand?_)

Her answer didn't give me much choice on where to lead the conversation now, and this is why I decided that I'd ignore it and direct her toward another topic than the purpose of her visit. Just so I could have her a little longer by my side. "I do. But, if you'd called, we'd still be able to see each other."

She stared at me with big wide eyes of shock, as if the fact that I started talking back in English was a treason against the crown, and I smirked as she explained herself, once again: "Yes, but I was not very sure that I wanted to talk to you."

"I'm not gonna eat you, you know." I assured her, even though the idea was getting more and more tempting. She was only mere inches away from me, and ever since she walked in, I had to resist with my urges to just jump on her. To tackle her against the bed and get rid of her clothes.

I deeply breathed in to regain composure of myself, and I thought to myself that she was actually having more effect on me than I accorded to her. My eyes travelled to her face as she was observing me with very cautious eyes, and before she could retort anything, I, once again, direct her toward another topic than her presence in my room.

"Actually, your English is quite good." I told her, really meaning it. Sure she had a faint accent, but compared to the average French person, her English was really god. And I liked the way she was doing no contractions betŵeen the words.

She stared at me with suspicion before she curtly replied: "I do not agree with you."

"Really? Well, je peux parler français encore, si tu préfères." (_Really? Well, I can talk in English again, if you like better._) I teased, and she clenched her jaw to contain herself.

"The problem is not to know if we talk English or French, but to know why I am here." She said with a cold anger that destabilised me a little. I was about to finally be serious when I decided to know how much she could control herself before really snapping at me.

"Oh, so I can speak English!?" I teasingly say, and she closes her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose. I swallowed hardly, wondering how she could be so unconscious as to close her eyes when she was all alone in a hotel room with me. This was plain stupid, and agonising temptation.

When she opened back her eyes I decided to explain to her what I wanted to do with her. Well, at least, one of the things I wanted to do with her. "Okay. Je stoppe de rigoler sinon, tu vas manger moi. En fait, si je voulais te parler, c'est parce que je veux devenir agent." (_Okay, I stop teasing, or you eat me. Actually, if I wanted to talk to you, it's because I want to become a manager._)

"Et ? Je n'ai pas de décision à prendre à votre place. (_So? I'm not here to take any decision for you._) She says, clearly not understanding my trail of thoughts and so I clarified for her:

"Non, excuses-moi je me suis mal exprimé. Ce que je voulais dire c'est que je souhaite devenir ton agent." (_No, excuse me. I didn't express myself properly. What I wanted to say is that I'd like to become your manager._)

For a second, it seemed that time stopped. She stared at me with her big purple eyes, making them so wide that I could almost distinguish every golden dust spitting her irises. For a second, I had the hope that she'd squeal of delight like precious girls do in movies, but she didn't. Her face closed as a disabused smile darkened her lips, and she got up with dignity.

I knew what she wanted to do, but I couldn't find anything to tell her so she would stay with me. She turned to look at me straight in the eyes, and she told me: "You know, it is not because you are a celebrity, or because you are rich, that you can have fun to someone else's expense. I will not try to give you a long and passionate speech that would make feel shame toward your actions, because I know you will not listen to me, and that you will not change your ways to be. So, goodbye sir!"

I had no idea how to make her stay with me, and I helplessly watched her walk away, stained by this bad impression she had of me. I wanted to make her understand that I was more than serious, but I didn't know how to. So I only told her the only thing I could tell her without risking getting burn in the process: "I'm not making fun of you, Clarissa Morgenstern."

She stopped herself and turned around to stare at me, giving me the faint hope that she'd come back to sit in my bed. She longly looked for something on my face before she finally left the room, closing the door with delicacy.

As soon as the door was closed, I let myself fall on the bed, my head in my hands as I let hopelessness take over me. I haven't been able to approach in any way. Wether it was as a person, as an artist or as a man. I was feeling completely … _useless_.

After long minutes of blankly staring at the ceiling, I mindlessly walked to the bathroom to take another bath, and once in it, I asked myself if she was thinking of me at this right moment. Did I make mad, or did I flatter her? Why did she come to me, if she never suspected anything about my plans? To see me?

This possibility made me slightly smile before I frowned. She never looked at me the way I looked at her. She never looked at me like fans usually look at me, either, like an inaccessible celeb they fantasised on. For her, I was a stranger, and nothing else. A presumptuous stranger, that is.

Once dried and dressed, I called Lise, my former manager who almost cried when I told her I wanted to quit, so she could do a contract for me, and find me a label without alerting anyone in the business or in the medias.

"But I thought you wanted to stop." She told me with surprise, and I heaved as I responded with a tired voice:

"Not for me. For a … _wonderful_ … g_ voice."

"OK. I'll send it to you tomorrow morning, via email. And don't forget that if she's minor_"

"She? Who said she?" I cut her off, all the while perfectly knowing that I almost sold it out earlier.

"I know you, Jace!" Lise sufficiently said, which made me smile against myself. "You're not one of those people ready to bet on a rap singer, or a new pretty boy for one summer! Anyway, warn her parents and make sure that they also sign the contract. You know how hard it'll be otherwise, don't ya…" She trails, and I roll my eyes, remembering how hard it had been when I started because of my father who only saw in me a golden goose.

"Yup, I know. Thank you so much, Lise."

"Hey… it's not for free!" She playfully whines. "I want ... how is it called already? Ah 'un opéra de chez Paul'." (**AN: This cake, though. If you ever come to France, do taste one, they're ones of the best.**)

"Okay. I get it. You'll have your cake. Speak to you later." I said, hanging up.

Then I packed my suitcase and went to the reception in order to tell the receptionist that I was leaving. He looked at me, horrified, and he asked in a panicked French: "Is it because of that brunette? Simone Dournon?"

I snapped my attention back to the receptionist at the mention of this name, thinking that Clarissa really took all the precautions needed to stay anonymous to me. I asked him if she was still there, hope making my heart beat faster than it should as I thought that I might not leave so soon. If she was still in the hotel, I would be able to go talk to her and clearly explain to her how serious I had been when I proposed to take care of her professional future.

"I am so sorry she bothered you, Mr. Wayland." The receptionist profusely apologised. "I took all the precautions needed, but she still found you. It's just that she must have heard the messenger when he brought your letter. Please don't leave because of one of your fan."

I repressed myself from snickering as he was mistaking her for one of my groupies. The girl didn't recognise me until I started singing, so she was anything but a stalkery fan. At least, not one of mines.

I shook my head and explained: "It's not what you think. I made her come here."

"Oh." He said before he tried to friendly tease: "She was kind of pretty."

I clenched my jaw at the insinuation he was making. Wether it was the fact that I would require the services of a call girl, or that _she_ would be the said call girl. "_No_! It was for business."

The receptionist paled and apologised, once again: "Oh, I am so deeply sorry. I didn't want to say that _ Anyway, here is your bill."

I angrily gave him back his keys, pissed by his insinuations, and I went to register in a hotel closer to her place. This hotel was more 'show-off', the kind of hotel Lise would have made be stay in, if she still had a say on my whereabouts. The hotel Crillon. I figured that if she was to come back to me (which I deeply hoped with my whole body), it would be … somehow better.

Once in my room, I laid on the bed, convincing myself that, after a good night of sleep, she would think better of my proposition. But this time, _I_ would be in control of the situation, not her. I'd be waiting in front of her apartment building all day long if needed, but I would make her talk to me.

Strangely, the fact that she didn't shove me off as soon as I told her my plans, made me feel good and relaxed. That, and the fact that she didn't seem _that_ angry when she left my room. I started visualising her, recalling the way she was dressed, and I asked myself if she was purposely showing off her greatest assets. I mean, how many normal people only wear a skirt and a light corset in winter? And as I started imagining her with less clothing, something called out to me. No matter how extraordinary and big were her eyes, no matter how long were her thick lashes, she wasn't wearing any makeup. Which is something rare in the 21st century to find a girl who doesn't wear makeup.

I suddenly got up, inspired by a sudden epiphany, and I went to the reception to warn them that either Clarissa Morgenstern, either Simone Dournon could come, and that she was to be redirected to my room (hoping that she wouldn't come up with another nickname). Then I went back to my room and I slumped on the bed to sleep like a baby.

But still, I woke up at six sharp, knowing that I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. So I drove to her building and I waited in the car, staring at the apartment lot and meditating about this whole situation. This never happened to me to act like that before, and I was feeling like I was starting to become a creepy stalker. I mean, it wasn't normal to be that obsessed about a girl I knew nothing about.

As I was lost in my thoughts, I was listening to '_Girl I Wanna Make You Sweat_', when the front door of her building opened up, revealing a Clarissa running fast on the pavement. I swiftly got out of the car and leaned against it for I was on her way, and so I could make sure that she wouldn't avoid me.

At the very moment her eyes laid on me, she stopped herself and, after longly looking at me straight in the eyes, she went round the car and she hopped in it, as if nothing. I smiled and also got in the car, full of hopes as I teased in French, pretending to be a chauffeur: "So? Where do I drop you, miss?"

"To school, of course." She merely replied, and I buckled up my belt as I realised what she just said. _School_? Was she still a minor? I cleared my throat and glanced at her, trying to reevaluate her age, and I said:

"How do you know that I don't have any bad intentions?"

She chuckled and lightly said: "You're not known for your acting skill, are you?"

I laughed a little, thinking that I didn't need to be an actor to have lustful thoughts about her. Then I looked at her, wondering if she read between the lines and understood my desire of her. But all I found was a smiling Clarissa, peaceful and confident. I started up the engine, slightly nodding to her, even though I had no idea of what I would do at this moment.

.

**~.o.O.o.~**

**.**

**So, hers was Jace's point of view. Hope you liked it. **

**And to to the lovely reviewer named lizz, thank you it is so nice of you to think so. And who knows maybe people are just not interested in this story.**

**Anyways, Cassandra Clare owns the Mortal Instruments franchise, everything else is mine.**

**Kiss㈍9 Kiss㈍9 Bang㈝9 Bang㈝9.**


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